


Bend Heaven or Raise Hell

by Ilye



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Steve Rogers, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Fix-It, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Pen Pals, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Recovery Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers is a sarcastic little shit, letter writing, not actually a multiple personality disorder fic, tags to be updated as the story progresses, though initial impressions may be deceiving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:03:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7685656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilye/pseuds/Ilye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier drags Captain America out of the Potomac, but it's James Barnes who's left to pick up the pieces. And it's all a dirty great mess, 'cos trying to piece together a fractured mind is hard enough when you <i>ain't</i> on the run. But the Winter Soldier's nothing if not resourceful and Bucky <i>knows</i> Steve Rogers, which lets Barnes finally buy the three of them some breathing space.</p><p>And Eastern Europe, well, it's pretty nice actually - so for a while things are pretty good, or as good as they can be for a man with a metal arm and a tri-faceted personality and a kill score he couldn't total even if he took his socks off. He's got a life (of sorts) and a network of friends (who cares if they're homeless?) and an intercontinental pen-pal, now that Steve's finally stopped chasing him.</p><p>But then he finds himself caught up in the centre of the Avengers' civil war, because when did anything ever go their way?</p><div class="center">
  <p>~✪~</p>
</div><br/>Linking together the events of The Winter Soldier and Civil War, with an eye on making it all right in the end. Expect language. Expect violence. Expect mental instability. Expect emotionally constipated bad-ass supersoldiers.<p>You with me? Cool. Let's go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from the _Aeniad_ by Virgil: _Fléctere si néqueo súperos Acheronta movebo_ \- If I cannot bend heaven, I will raise hell.

The moment Steve realised there was someone else in the apartment was like watching a suicidal man realise the red laser dot on his tie wasn't going away. A dreadful, draining relief ran through him, evident in the softened lines of his great shoulders and the breath that left him in a rush, as though in sudden gratitude to the universe's murderous tendencies for removing the responsibility of a life-or-death decision.

Steve Rogers dropped his head and closed his eyes. For a heartbeat he looked almost peaceful. But when he looked up again, over his shoulder and into the dark corner at his three o'clock, his expression was carefully and precisely blank.

He watched the welcome intruder. The Winter Soldier watched him back.

"Bucky."

Amazing, what one word could do. Bucky warmed to it. To Barnes it felt like a road rash, simultaneously numb and raw across broad swathes of skin; aflame, with alien debris embedded under the surface.

The Winter Soldier sighed, but didn't flinch.

"Not entirely." A measured silence. "But yeah. I guess Bucky's here."

Steve made a noise that was entirely interested and not the slightest bit scared. Bucky supplemented the nostalgia there: damned fool never did let a bit of sense get scared into him.

"Hey, Rogers!"

 _In the house_. _The flying man._

The Winter Soldier – no, _Barnes_ – startled; the Winter Soldier never startles. He was across the table before he knew it, closer to the window and the safety of a world that didn’t know him.

"Hold that thought, Sam!" Steve called back. "I'll be right down!" He was trying to buy himself some time, Barnes could tell, trying to find the time to get Barnes to stay.

Barnes had to get it out and get gone.

"Steve, buddy, you have _got_ to stop following me."

Steve’s eyebrows drew together. Barnes felt a twist in his gut – Christ, but Bucky always hated that expression.

"Well I kinda figured that could happen," Steve tried, with worlds of longing behind his eyes, "since you're here now, and all."

Wilson’s voice interrupted again, closer this time. Barnes cringed – was everyone around here incapable of following orders?

"I hear voices in there, man – what you watching? Better not be starting that movie before the pizza gets here!"

Their eyes met across the table. Steve took a sidestep around it, hand stretched cautiously out.

"Bucky, don't." His eyes flicked towards the open window, like he knew Barnes' entire being was drawn to it. "Please. Whatever it is, whatever you need, we can figure it out."

"That's the thing," Barnes muttered back. He was coiled now, attuned to the steps of Wilson approaching the living room. " _I_ can figure it out –" He gestured to himself, "– figure _us_ out –  but I can't do it with you around. You gotta get off my tail, Steve. You gotta give me space. I can’t do it if I'm always on the run from you."

Steve looked run through and it was so much worse than the look on his face when he let the Winter Soldier shatter his cheekbone with knuckles. Bucky flinched. The Winter Soldier remained cold. Barnes reached into his pocket and held out the note with his left hand.

He wanted to stay and explain more, explain what was on the note and that it didn't mean they couldn't still find each other again. But he hadn't got the time to find the words to suture the wound and make Steve _understand_.

Steve's eyes widened in surprise and he reached for the note without hesitation. They were too far apart and Barnes was about to take a step closer – fuck, he must really trust this man for the Winter Soldier to let that happen – when –

"Yo, Steve!" The door handle turned.

_Time’s up, Barnes._

The Winter Soldier made a complicated flick of his left wrist whilst the other flung his best knife across the room. It embedded itself in the door. Wilson swore from the corridor. Steve ignored him and hurdled the table, but he was too late. There was nothing left but a ghost story, a curtain fluttering in the breeze, and the address for a Bulgarian PO box on a note pinned by a dagger to the door.


	2. Yours, Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Your note's still pinned to the living room door with your dagger, by the way. I’m not going to follow you anymore, but if you want your knife back, you’re gonna have to come and get it. I can’t send shit like that by surface mail._ "

The thing about Eastern Europe is that it's full of mountains, which means it's full of valleys, and there's also something funky with hot and cold fronts going on, which means it gets a lot of electrical storms compared to the rest of the continent.

The Winter Soldier is as indifferent to storms as he is to 'most everything else. Bucky is prone to panic attacks, what with the war and all, and sometimes that gets old. Barnes, though, he fucking loves them.

Not only do they thrill the hell out of him – he's in love with that electric prickle up the back of his neck and the way the world feels like it gasps in the heartbeat before lightning strikes. They also provide great cover, because the only people nuts enough to go out in them are ex-brainwashed assassins with three personalities and people with nowhere to shelter.

Barnes is soaked, even standing under the bridge where he promised to stay and watch Dimitar’s sleeping bag because the rain's so heavy, it's splashing up from the concrete and soaking insidiously up his jeans.

_It is no concern._

Barnes snorts. “Whatever you say, Soldat,” he mutters. Even he’s starting to think that Bucky has it right when he thinks of shirts hanging out to dry in front of the fire and blankets around bare shoulders after a Brooklyn storm.

Dimitar’s taking his sweet time, and Barnes is just starting to wonder if he’s abandoned his worldly possessions to a stranger under a bridge with a metal arm and a Russian lilt to his Bulgarian, when the guy emerges through the rain and hunkers down next to Barnes against the concrete arch of the bridge.

Against the Winter Soldier’s better judgement, Barnes twitches his lips into a half-smile.

“You get them?”

Dimitar pulls a bunch of letters from the inside of his new waterproof coat. They're dry, but his tangled beard bushes out from under the hood and drips onto them as he holds them out. Barnes grabs the bundle before it can get any wetter and tucks them inside his own jacket.

“Thanks,” he says. It’s a little distracted, because he’s running his fingers over the letters to check for any obvious lumps or bumps that might indicate a tracker. Nothing immediately obvious, but the Winter Soldier won’t let him go home without a proper check.

If Dimitar notices then he doesn’t comment on it. “Thanks to you also,” he says, tugging on the blue Gore-Tex. Barnes nods; it’s a good coat.

“Coffee?” he offers, because Bucky’s ma would’ve been spinning in her grave if he hadn’t. Dimitar’s eyes light up, but he keeps it contained into a shrugged-out nod and grunts out,

“Sure, if you’re buying.”

Barnes waits whilst Dimitar gathers up his sleeping bag and the few other possessions he’s stuffed into the binliner, and leads them to a nearby coffee chain. Dimitar insists on waiting under the bus shelter outside, which suits Barnes fine because it gives him chance to nip into the coffee shop’s bathroom and check the letters.

Mostly it's crap, junk he deliberately signed up for so's to make the PO box look used and less conspicuous when a random homeless person showed up to collect a single handwritten letter. He gives the junk mail a cursory check, just to be sure, but it's that handwritten letter that he wants now.

It was top of the pile when Dimitar handed it to him, and the water dripping from Dimitar’s beard has smudged the nameless PO box address on the envelope. The handwriting is unmistakably Steve's, a slanting cursive that's beautiful in its efficiency. The old-fashioned idiot still uses fountain pen. Bucky feels like he's smiling and proffers a memory, of notes left on the kitchen counter proclaiming each other's whereabouts, reminders of appointments, shopping lists, things they'd seen whilst out and about... Barnes lets himself plunge into that memory, lets himself feel the coarse wood of their rickety, paint-splashed dining table, lets himself smell the summer-city-warmth of their old apartment, boot polish and stew and whiskey when they had an extra clam or two. He can see the dust motes shivering in front of the window, turfed up by his well-worn brogues as he cuts a threadbare rug in front of the window to the rich, round sound swinging from their radio on the sideboard.

This letter is everything from those days, and it's nothing at all.

Judging from the postmark, Steve had got that letter in the post before Barnes even left DC three days ago. Barnes had expected a whiplash turnaround, but this was impressive. The great lunk had sent it priority mail, for fuck’s sake. To Bulgaria!

Steve's signed the back of the envelope, too. It's not his signature-signature – that's a dangerous thing to be sending into unknown mailboxes from the former Soviet bloc – but his artist's autograph, the one he'd use to complete a drawing, with the curls and tails looping across the seams of the envelope flap.

_Clever._

Bucky agrees. They'd used that trick early in the war to herald that the letter had been opened in transit, until the censors really got stuck in and things came out more black than white.

Barnes runs his fingers over the envelope, then holds it up to the light.

 _No tampering evident_ , declares the Winter Soldier.

Barnes is satisfied, because it means he can take the letter home to read. He doesn’t know what’s in it or how any of them is going to react, and if he's going to have an episode, he'd rather have it in private where he can't take anyone else out. He stuffs it back inside his jacket with the junk and ventures back out for the coffee.

~✪~

By the time Barnes gets back to the safe house three cities over, the storm's petered out into a gentle drizzle with a grizzled, sullen sky. He climbs the seven storeys to his shoebox apartment like they’re nothing. He keeps his footing, even though the floor is wet and slippery, because the Winter Soldier and Bucky both insisted on the importance of good boots. The thought reminds him of Dimitar waiting under the bus shelter for his coffee, shifting from foot to foot – judging from the splits in his boots, his feet had to be pretty cold and wet. The guy'd said that he'd prefer a decent waterproof coat to new boots, so Barnes'd honoured the request. He feels kinda bad that he couldn't afford both, but there was only so much he dared skim off the Hydra funds before they noticed, so he promised himself right then that he'd work towards the boots in time for his next trip into Sofia.

He only sees one neighbour on his way up, and returns her greeting with a polite but disinterested nod that the Winter Soldier perfected long ago to discourage attention. Nobody ever seems offended by it. There are lots of former soldiers in this neck of the woods – it wasn't so horribly long ago that genocide kicked off next door and the country found itself both brimming with refugees and hamstrung by economic collapse. Barnes slots in well with the wide-eyed, slightly feral expressions of the men who've obviously seen too much and spoken too little about it. Nobody thinks anything of another ill-kempt madman who can barely scrape together enough change for the rent on a dingy studio flat, with walls nowhere thin enough to muffle the voices of traumas past. It just so happens that his are different traumas from the others’, but who's counting when they're face-to-face with the tired-eyed guy who kept the whole block up with his screaming last night?

It's only once he’s inside his apartment with the deadbolts fastened and the Winter Soldier’s habitual security sweep completed that Barnes pulls the letters out of his jacket and flips through the bundle of mail. The junk goes straight into the fireplace. Nothing else is relevant except Steve’s letter.

He turns it over and considers the envelope before he opens it. It's weighty, clearly made of top quality paper. Barnes appreciates that – one thing Bucky never needed to remind him was that Steve's an artist, and with that comes an appreciation for the finer interactions of ink and paper. Bucky's still hovering, though, offering more recollections of days before ballpoints were commonplace and associated curses regarding paper too cheap and waxy to take up ink properly. Barnes gets a braindump that sets his teeth on edge: a scratchy fountain pen nib and the slimy slip of paper through his fingers. His left arm recalibrates of its own accord as he shivers and does the mental equivalent of patting the Kid on the head as he reaches for his knife to slit the envelope open.

~✪~

_Dear Bucky,_

_Well, you have no idea how long I’ve sat here trying to figure out how to start this letter. Yeah, I know: me? Lost for words? I guess Hell finally found the fire extinguishers. But I'm not sure what you want me to tell you, Buck. I'm not even sure if you still want me to call you that, or if it's the_ _other_ _obvious reason there's no name on the note._

_(That's still pinned to the living room door with your dagger, by the way. I’m not going to follow you anymore, but if you want your knife back, you’re gonna have to come and get it. I can’t send shit like that by surface mail.)_

_I’m sorry if Sam and I put the wind up you by following you. We had no idea what state you’d be in and we guessed_ _they_ _would be trying to catch you again, if you’d gone dark. Which, over my dead body._

_(One day, I hope I get to explain the six different ways you ought to be laughing at that, if you’re not already. You still got your old gallows sense of humour, pal?)_

_I was always knew you were in there, underneath everything they did to you. I saw_ _you_ _, when you had me on my back just before we fell. It looked like you actually freaked the Soldier out, because the way he took over after that, he actually looked pretty scared. But somehow I’m not fish food at the bottom of the river, so I don’t know what kind of fight you had on your hands, but I’m guessing you came up swinging._

_It was exactly what you’d have done back in ‘36 when I got myself into a fight I couldn’t win. You’d pull me out of it and then smack me myself for being a dumbass, no sympathy spared._

_Thank you for giving me the chance to write to you. I’d love to hear back from you. I miss you and I want to fix this. I want my pal back, and if you ever think you’re ready, you’ll be_ _so_ _welcome._

 _Yours,_ _  
_ _Steve_

_P.S. I’ll always sign the envelope, so you know it’s me. I don’t know if you remember, but we used to do that when you went to war._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Useless fact I discovered whilst doing my research: the first patent for a ballpoint pen was issued in 1888, but the first iterations were pretty dodgy and they only became widespread after WWII.


	3. FUBAR?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Barnes here. I think I’d rather you called me that these days if it’s okay? I won’t not respond to Bucky ~~(I probably still respond to Soldat too)~~ cos I am still Bucky but I’m also kind of not. ~~I mean~~ ~~I just~~ ~~I’m not~~_
> 
> _Gah. Let me start again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I took a while to update this time. I usually aim for once a week or so, but life's pretty busy right now and keeps getting in the way. Damn it. But I hope you like this chapter, and thank you to anyone still reading :)

Sam’s already dressed by the time Steve gets out of the shower. He’s left Steve’s coffee on the table, with a letter propped very obviously against the mug.

Steve looks between the letter and Sam, who’s lurking by the toaster like he’s waiting for the letter to explode.

“What’s up with you? You expecting a letter bomb or something?”

“Maybe.” Sam chucks his chin in the direction of the table, then turns around as the toaster pops like he’s prepared to meat shield his breakfast. "That's for you. All the way from Sofia."

The lurch in Steve's stomach has nothing to do with the way he falls towards the table. Now he really _looks_ he can make out the writing on the envelope, wobbly block capitals proclaiming Steve's name at Sam's address. Steve had managed to keep his expectations of a reply on the level, balancing out what Sam called his idealistic optimism with a cold, leaching cynicism that expanded every time the universe pissed in his coffee again. What that _actually_ meant was that he’d forced himself to not think about it, because running through every possible scenario was giving him emotional whiplash and it was getting embarrassing with how often he was having to replace the punching bags at the gym.

That untidy scrawl is _so_ familiar – Bucky's writing was always so messy it was barely legible because his brilliant brain worked too fast for his hand to keep up. Steve feels his face broaden into an aching smile as he’s tilted back into a world of split lips and fond insults, black eyes and tough love, practical jokes and black humour and warm arms and laughing eyes and _Bucky_.

"Steve..." Sam begins as Steve reaches for the letter. Steve looks up and narrows his eyes.

"What?" he asks, though there's really no need. He's trying not to snap, but the anticipation of opening the envelope, the dread and the joy over what it might contain, have got his blood hot. Sam’s already opened his mouth to speak, but Steve beats him to the same-old same-old.

“Yeah, I know, three bullet wounds, a broken eye socket, a severe concussion and a partridge in a fucking pear tree, Sam. You’ve said as much the whole time we’ve been looking for him – I hear ya. But I ain’t blowing bubbles on the Potomac bed and the dagger is clearly stuck in the _door_ –“ he gestures over his shoulder with the half-opened envelope, “– and not my _chest_ , so I reckon if the world’s hottest sharp-shooter was gonna find a way to kill me, he’d go with something a bit more sophisticated than a letter bomb. Besides,” he tilts one corner of it towards Sam, "you've already touched it."

"Yeah," Sam snaps the kitchen tongs at him, "at arm's length. But whatever." He puts the tongs down and takes a demonstrative swig of coffee as Steve finishes opening the letter. “No need to get your spangled panties in a bunch. I’m just looking out for –”

“ ** _BANG_** _ **!**_ ”

Sam basically hits the floor, coffee and all. Steve doubles up, laughing so hard it feels like his asthma came back. Sam lifts his head, glowering, and slowly peels himself off the kitchen tiles.

“Man, from one vet to another that is _not. Cool._ It is so damned _uncool_ that I can already _smell_ your bitch-ass roasting in _Hell!_ ”

Steve straightens up and wipes his eyes. "Sorry," he chokes out, but Sam's face says he knows Steve isn't really sorry at all.

"You are literally twelve years old!" Sam proclaims, and makes a great show of pouring himself a new cup of coffee.

"Figuratively," Steve grins back, getting to his knees with the paper towel to wipe up the spillage from Sam's first cup. "I am figuratively twelve years old on account of being literally ninety."

"Second childhood," Sam glowers, "and you're _literally_ a smartass," and stalks out to the deck with his breakfast so Steve can read his letter in peace.

Steve wipes his eyes and sets the paper towel aside. He turns the envelope over when he picks it up, and this time notices that Bucky's also written something on the envelope flap. He folds the ripped pieces of paper back together and frowns at what the aligned edges reveal.

_FUBAR?_

Fucked up beyond all recognition?

Steve can only assume Bucky's referring to himself and closes his teeth savagely on the inside of his cheek. He damn well hopes not.

All of a sudden he wonders whether the envelope does contain a letterbomb, albeit a figurative one. What's in there? What's Bucky got to say that he can only say it in writing from the depths of Eastern Europe? What state has Hydra left his best friend in?

He figures he can only suck it and see, and pulls the sheets of thin, recycled lined paper from the envelope.

~✪~

_Hey, Steve,_

_Barnes here._ ~~ _I think_~~ _I’d rather you called me that these days if it’s okay? I won’t not respond to Bucky _~~_(I probably still respond to Soldat too)_~~ _cos I am still Bucky but I’m also kind of not._ ~~ _I mean_~~    ~~ _I just_~~ ~~_I’m not_~~

_Gah. Let me start again._

_First off, I don’t have multiple personalities. I'm probably gonna sound like I do, but I promise I don't. I’m not even sure that’s a legitimate thing anymore, in psychiatry terms (I’ve done some reading whilst I’ve been trying to unfuck myself). I just talk that way because helps me compartmentalise everything. There’s a hell of a lot going on in my head at the moment and it helps if I can put names to it all, you know?_

~~_Of course you don't know. I have no idea who I am anymore, so how would you?_ ~~

_The Kid's still here, the same fella you used to know, but I'm not just him any more. It's like getting a new job, I guess._ ~~_What a shitty job!_ ~~ _Think like you getting serumed-up and stuff. You're still the person you were before, my little Stevie, but now you're someone else too. You're Stevie, but you're also Captain America and big Steve Rogers. It's like that with me now. I'm still the people I was before. Both of them, the kid and the soldier. But now I'm Barnes, too – it's just that I'm still trying to figure him out._

_I do things that Soldat does, cos my brain's been conditioned that way, and I have a head full of things that come from the Kid, who I was before. (I don't have everything. I think there's a lot I don't remember still.) It makes it easier for me to sort through it this way. It’s a balancing act. If one of them gets too dominant then it takes me ages to get back to being a functional human. If it all comes at once then it’s a goddamned shitshow, although I’m better at stopping that from happening now._

_Christ, this is all a long-ass, navel-gazing way of me explaining why I can’t be around you right now, not until I’ve got a handle on it. It kind of sucks, if I'm honest, but you get the Kid all excited like he’s in a candy shop and it’s just too much – like, even now, writing this letter to you, I’m getting a headful of all this stuff we did and things that happened to us before the war. Don't get me wrong, it's great remembering something actually_ _good_ _, but it's also pretty overwhelming and sometimes it spaces me out for a while. And Kid says it'd freak you out if you saw me like that_ _~~and if I'm honest I don't enjoy it too much either~~ , _ _so I reckon this is the best arrangement til I know this Barnes fella a bit better._

_Thanks for respecting me enough to give me the space I asked for. It's been a long time since that happened and I know it must be hard for you. But it won't be forever._

_Hey – how’s about this for an interim arrangement? I'll tell you who I am now if you tell me who I used to be. Help me get to grips with the Kid and what he's got to offer._

_(You can tell me about yourself too, I guess. Even a guy as swell as me’s got to get a bit sick of hearing about himself all the time.)_

~~_Yours sincerely_~~    ~~ _Truly yours_~~

_Your pal,_

_Barnes_

_P.S. I noticed you autographed the envelope. Yeah, I remember we used to do that back in the war. Shame I had to ruin it to get the letter out. Should've asked for a signed photo really, although rest assured I haven't forgotten your ugly mug._ _And I'll tell you something about the modern age for free, pal: they have waterproof ink now. It rains a lot in Sofia, so you might wanna consider getting yourself some._

_P.P.S. My humour’s blacker than an executioner’s hood, but if you think I’m gonna laugh at your reckless fuckery for putting the plane into the ocean then you’ve got another thing coming. I knew you’d done it, you stupid son of a bitch. They showed me the newspapers._

_P.P.P.S. I’m kinda pissed at Soldat over the knife. I know he was just reacting and looking out for us because it’s what he’s trained to do, but even so, I_ _like_ _that knife. Keep it safe for me. When I've found my right mind, I'm gonna come back for it._

~✪~

Steve reads the letter three times and processes it whilst he eats his toast. He may as well be chewing cardboard and his stomach's acrobatics are fit for the circus, but his metabolism's running on empty and making him grouchy so he forces himself to eat. When he’s finally got no more reason to sit there like a cow chewing the cud, he goes to tuck the letter back inside the envelope and finds another surprise. Tucked inside is also a little postcard with a sad teddy bear on it, holding a bunch of flowers. Steve flips it over and reads the very careful lower-case letters hand-printed on the back.

 _sorry about soldat_ _  
_ _we're discussing his behaviour_

Steve pins the postcard to the kitchen door underneath Bucky’s – no, _Barnes'_ – knife, and goes out to join Sam on the deck.

"Hey," he says, handing Sam a fresh cup of coffee. Sam looks up with an eyebrow lifted in suspicion, then grudgingly takes the mug and sniffs it like it might be poisoned or something.

"So you're not in little pieces in my kitchen ceiling," Sam concedes after he's taken a sip. "I’m glad, because your stubborn ass'd be a pain to clean off the paintwork."

Steve snorts and sits down next to him. "I'm sorry," he says. "That one was a bit dark, even for me." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring blankly out over the view past the deck.

"Bucky and the Howlies and me, we always had a real gallows sense 'o humour," he elaborates into Sam's deliberate silence after a moment. "Mine's got worse since I went into the ice and everyone I knew kicked the bucket. I sometimes forget that not everyone shares it."

He glances sideways. Sam's listening, calm and patient and relaxed in his chair. When their eyes catch, he shifts his weight forward with a shrug and mimics Steve's own thoughtful pose.

"Nah," he says, "I've been to war. I get it – whatever gets you by, right?" He leans forward and pushes Steve on the shoulder, provoking a wry, sheepish little smile. "I just wish you hadn't brought my coffee into it. And, y'know, I'm totally gonna buy Lego and scatter it over your bedroom floor so I can laugh when I hear you stand on it and squeal, but really, we're cool, it's totally water under the bridge."

Steve laughs and sits back into his chair again. “I’d deserve it, too. I don’t think even Erskine’s serum is a match for that kind of torture.” He takes a gulp of his too-hot coffee and relishes the scald of it. "I'm just on edge, and that blackens my mood. Mostly I keep a lid on it, but knowing Bucky might be back – I got away from myself, I guess."

Sam shakes his head. "It's okay. Honestly, I get it. You've been a pain in the butt since he showed up and you sent him that letter. Why wouldn't you be? You have every right to be on edge, and that shitty sense of humour you've got going on? It's just your godawful fake optimism, trying to pretend you're not worrying your perky little ass off." He pokes Steve in the bicep. "Am I wrong? Go on, tell me I'm wrong, I dare you."

Steve knows his smile is tired this time, but it's genuine and kinda relieved because as usual, Sam is bang on the money.

"You know you're not wrong, because you wouldn't be dumb enough to dare me otherwise," he says. Sam snorts and looks just a little smug. Steve offers him his right hand.

"Seriously though: sorry."

Instead of shaking his hand, Sam low-fives him and turns it into some fist-bump affair that Steve bumbles awkwardly but gamely through.

"So, we're cool," Sam says, laughing just a little as Steve's attempt. "This time. But do it again and I _will_ do the Lego thing, all right?"

Steve gives him an off-centre salute, and they both settle back with their coffee. He only realises he's gone quiet again when Sam sets his mug down on the deck with a hollow clunk and shifts to catch Steve's attention.

"Hey, you okay? Anything you wanna share? No, man, I don't wanna read the letter," he adds, holding up his hands as Steve reaches into his pocket for it. "That's private between you two and I bet your buddy'd have six kinds of fit if he knew you'd let someone else read it." There's a pause, then he adds more gently,

"He _is_ still your buddy, isn't he?"

Steve sighs, because there's the million-dollar question. "I think so?" He curls his fingers around his own cold mug and frowns into it, like it contains all the answers. His mind's eye draws an acronym across his retinas. "I wouldn't say he's FUBAR – I mean, he's calling himself Barnes now and talking like he's got multiple personalities, even though he says he doesn't. It's all a bit jumbled, to be honest. But he _sounds_ like the old Buck, for the most part, so I dunno." He looks up at Sam, who's watching patiently. "That's good, right?"

“Well it sounds like Hydra didn’t clean him out completely,” Sam says thoughtfully, “so I’d say yeah, it’s a good starting point.”

There’s a brief, measured silence, the kind that preludes a potentially tricky question. Steve abandons his mug to the deck so he can fold his arms across his chest and waits, braced.

“These multiple personalities he says he doesn’t have,” Sam says next. “He talk to you about them?”

“Yep.” Steve pops the _p_ and lifts his chin as he says it, meeting Sam’s eye like he’s daring an opposition. “One seems to be Bucky before the war – the Kid, he calls him. The other, he calls Soldat.”

“Hmm.” Sam doesn’t sound all that surprised. He drops the eye contact, but only so his attention can drift into the middle distance whilst he frowns at nothing in particular.

"It wouldn't be the strangest thing in the world for him to label his feelings like that. I mean, it’s hard to tell much at all cos there's nothing to work with, but from what you've said, he's trying to build himself a new identity. And that's okay, right?" Sam looks away from the middle-distance and focuses back in Steve. There's something in his expression that compels Steve to nod, to agree with this fundament of human psychology that Sam is about to build on. Sam returns the nod and continues,

"Yeah. People do it all the time, deliberately or not. It's okay to change. But what concerns me more is, well, if Barnes remembers life as the Winter Soldier – that’s gotta be some pretty traumatic stuff, right there. Nobody should have to handle something like that without support and I’ll bet my left nut he ain't got a regular appointment with Sofia’s finest shrinks."

Steve sticks his hand in his pocket and rubs the thin paper of the letter between his fingers. It's perforated along one edge where it's been torn out of a notebook. He can see the Biro scrawl across it still: _I’m kinda pissed at Soldat over the knife. I know he was just reacting and looking out for us because it’s what he’s trained to do, but even so..._

"He remembers that he _behaves_ like the Winter Soldier," Steve says, "but I'm not sure whether he remembers anything he's – he was forced to do."

Sam eyes him sidelong, but there's a kind of pride in it, which catches Steve off-guard until Sam says,

"You know, I didn't want you to open that letter because I was afraid you'd be spitting nails. But actually you’re a helluva lot calmer than I reckon you have any right to be.”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, well, it’d be a different story if we weren’t kicking Hydra ass on the regular. But I had Bruce teach me a thing or two about anger management, because I always hoped this day would come and I knew I couldn’t afford to lose my shit when it did. I can't go down that rabbit hole – I'll never get myself back out of it and then where does that leave Buck? ‘Sides, actually, there's a lot to be grateful for here. Whatever Hydra did, it doesn't seem to have permanently fucked him up beyond all recognition. He's in contact, and he says this isn't the long-term plan." He offers Sam a quirk of his eyebrows. "He doesn’t plan on leaving that knife in your door forever."

"Well that's good, because I wanna fix it before I lose my damage deposit!" Sam leans down to pick up his coffee mug. “So, that godawful optimism of yours – it sounds like it ain’t so fake, then?”

Steve smirks at him. “Sometimes, but it ain't real all the time either. Hell, I’d probably throttle myself otherwise. That’s gotta get annoying real fast."

Sam seems either appeased by that, or too in need of more coffee to care, so Steve grabs his own mug and together the stand and head for the kitchen. Sam's just got inside the French doors and is heading towards the coffee machine when another thought occurs to Steve.

“Hey, imprtant question: why’d you bet your left nut and not your right one?”


End file.
